


Snapshots of The Apocalypse

by 0mniessence



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV), The 100 (TV)
Genre: A.I. - Freeform, AU, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Angst, Apocalypse, Canon Divergence - Fear The Walking Dead, Canon Divergence - the 100, City of Light, Clexa, Comedy, Crossover, F/F, FTWD, Horror, Humor, Love, Nightblood - Freeform, Reincarnation, Romance, Walkers, Zombies, clarke and lexa - Freeform, elycia, elyza and alicia, elyza lex - Freeform, lexark, the laundromat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0mniessence/pseuds/0mniessence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accompanying video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_lq8ubWu2c</p><p>Elyza Lex is pumped - she has just robbed a guy at the laundromat when she encounters a drunkard in a tunnel. She engages him and, in the bloody aftermath, finds herself mistaken as one of "The Infected." The national guard apprehends her to be further scrutinized. Because this is her life and this shit happens to her all the time.</p><p>Alicia Clark is pissed - her brother's on withdrawals, her mother's in hysterics, her mother's boyfriend is AWOL, her phone is dead, and no one is telling her what the hell is going on. She demands answers and, if her family doesn't give them to her, she'll venture out on her own. Because, like, waiting around like some sheltered damsel is just totally, uh, stupid?</p><p>Clarke Griffin is devastated - the girl she loves has passed, the conclave to select the new commander has started, the A.I. introduces new complications, and everything is moving too damn fast. All she knows is she has to get her hands on that chip and find out about this "City of Light."</p><p>Lexa is unsurprised - she knew death was not the end, but the afterlife is not what she expected. She should not be one to talk but, why are the dead... walking?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elyza Lex at the Advent of the Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> I made a video to accompany this piece! Introducing Elyza Lex:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_lq8ubWu2c
> 
> Check out the promotional cover for this story on my blog! Until I can figure out how to put pics on AO3, I will give links to all media for this story:
> 
> https://thewellroundeddabbler.wordpress.com/2016/04/03/snapshots-of-the-apocalypse-chapter-2/
> 
> The video is slightly crack, but this piece is serious. This story will chronicle snapshots of Elyza Lex and Alicia Clark as they navigate through the apocalypse, and of Lexa and Clarke as circumstances land them together in this new world for one epic adventure.
> 
> Death Is Not The End

  

“Phew. Well. That was a blast… without there having to actually **be** one!”

The blonde skipped out of the laundromat with power in one hand, and money in the other.

_That was ridiculously easy_ , she thought as she smoothly sauntered away, opening up the man’s wallet and counting how much cash he had stashed in. _Did he even realize he was getting swindled?_

Elyza Lex was a young 20-year old in her sophomore year of college, hailing from Australia and hanging around the United States (L.A., specifically) as part of a study abroad program. She studied computer science, was the Australian ambassador to the Women in Stem organization at the American university she was attending, and volunteered at Kids Can Code afterschool programs for elementary schools near the university.

_But with all this scholarship money that goes into my education, hardly anything’s left for some fun,_ Elyza thinks to herself as she now starts to leaf through the credit, debit, and gift cards. _A girl’s gotta have a part-time job!_

So when Elyza was not out magnanimously pushing the STEM agenda and being an exemplar model to unsuspecting young women and children, she earned her dishonest living through using personal information procured from hacked e-mail accounts, carefully reading finger movements and translating them to passwords or PIN numbers, pick-pocketing squished people at concerts or crowded metros, recording the patterns at slot machines, gambling for pots of gold at the casinos, and being a general salesperson by facilitating access to and generating more traffic to the _deep_ web’s underworld drug trade.

_Woot, yeah, STEM for the win, alright!_ she thought as she quietly chuckled to herself.

Oh, yes, and most recently added to the list: armed robbery.

“Not too bad for my first time,” Elyza mused to herself, eyeing her gun and putting the safety lock back on. “I think it was a mutually pleasant experience for myself and the poor half-wit that decided to do his laundry at _this_ time of night.”

11:30 pm.

To be honest, she almost talked herself out of doing it.

But she had gone through the motions–surfed the deep web, found illegal handguns for sale, met with the dealer to pick up her purchase, practiced her aim and proper technique at shooting ranges, staked out places to rob, and finally plopped herself in location, poised and ready to assault.

_I couldn’t just_ **not** _go through with it after all that time-intensive preparation_ , Elyza told herself as she neared a dimly lit tunnel and found a magazine and newspaper rack near the mouth of the tunnel. _Oh, right, I think I left my other magazine at the laundromat._

She pocketed the wallet, keeping one card out, swiftly picked up a magazine and started to sift through it, looking for items to shop for now that she had won her hard-earned money.

Frankly, she had let fate decide what should happen – if no one walked it, then she would take it as a sign that she should just ditch the gun and go back to her more indirect methods of extortion; if someone _did_ walk in, then she would take it as a sign that it was time to level up her robbery game.

And when the attractive, poshly dressed young man stepped in…

“Well, the fates hath spoken,” Elyza said to herself, looking at the man’s driver’s license on. “So you see, I really had no final say in the matter; hope you don’t take it personally…let’s see uh… Brian! You've got some bad luck there, Brian.”

She laughed to herself again, and the sounds of her mirth echoed throughout the tunnel.

“…Ungh…”

Elyza stopped.

_That one didn’t sound like me,_ she thought to herself as she strained her ears trying to locate the noise again. _Uh, who dares to interrupt me in the middle of my evil laugh? Gosh, I was already beginning to imagine the closing credits with my laughter as background…_

“Hmphf…”

She saw a dark silhouette slowly tottering its way towards her.

She narrowed her eyes to try and get a clearer view of the figure.

“…uah…hwua…”

She blinked, and clasped her arms behind her to conceal the gun.

“Hey, uh…you alright there, mate?” she questioned in confusion.

“…”

“No answer, even though I’m right in your face? Shall I say—rude much?” she spat out with some attitude. “Whatever. I’m not dealing with this. You need me to call someone for you?”

“…Mgrrph…”

“I know you must be smashed out of your mind, my friend, but a more eloquent verbal response would be preferable,” she said with playful sarcasm and a roll of her eyes.

“…”

Now that the man has shortened the distance between them, she notices that there’s something odd about him—he doesn’t have the demeanor of your regular, run-of-the-mill drunkard. His head is bent at a strange angle, his arms hang loosely as he walks, his eyes are blank glints, his jaw hangs open, and his clothing is tattered and covered in dark splotches of…

She whizzes the gun forward.

“Freeze,” she says firmly. “Don’t come any closer.”

The man keeps walking towards her.

“I may not carry a mace, cross, whistle, or pepper spray, but I do have a pistol,” Elyza elaborates. “Kinda trumps the other options, don’t ya think?

“…”

She starts walking backwards as the man continue to walk, as if not hearing her.

“Listen, so, uh, you’re a quirky one, and I don’t know what your angle is here—rape, assault, prank, come on—but I have every right to shoot you in self-defense,” Elyza explains carefully. “And my aim far from strays.”

Elyza gulps when the man, now less than 15 feet away from her, appears to trudge with more purpose, as if her spiel only encouraged him. And in the dim lighting, the girl finally notices the red tint to the splotches on the man’s battered clothing, and the drool falling from his jaw.

“Mother—shit. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you…!?” Elyza manages to get out right before the man inadvertently launches at her in her moment of shock.

Elyza screams and dodges his attack, but he grabs her leg as he collapses on the ground, tripping the blonde along with him.

“Grrhgg… argh…”

_Oh, God, fuck, fuck, fuck,_ she thinks as she panics. _What is it? Rabies? Drugs? What is he on?_

She looks at her gun. She’s never really shot a gun outside of the controlled environment of a shooting range. She had always worn earplugs and goggles, as well as gloves and helmets for added protection. The only other time she threatened someone with shooting them was back at the laundromat not even 20 minutes ago, and even _then_ she was semi-bluffing, a part of her hoping the guy would just hand over the money so she wouldn’t have to hurt him.

The man growls at her and start biting her shoes.

“What in hell—!? BUGGER OFF, YOU FREAK!” Elyza shrieks, smacking him with her magazine to no avail.

She kicks him in the face and then crawls away backwards as quickly as she can. “Do you want money, is that it? Ok, fine, here”—she pulls out the wallet and throws it at him, hitting him in the shoulder—“have the stupid dough, it wasn’t even mine to begin with so whatever! Oh, hell, is this what this is? Divine retribution of some sort? Fuck, karma is a bitter bitch!”

The deranged man jumps at her again while she’s still down and she struggles to wrangle him off of her.

She grunts, and screams, and punches, and cries for help—all is moot, though, because it’s probably midnight by now and she was walking by herself in a dimly lit tunnel with no signs of other people therein.

“Fuck, is this how I’m going to die!? Eaten by some stranger? Not even in the good way, SHIT, FUCKING, LET GO!”

She makes a choice.

And she shoots.

Everywhere.

His chest, his arm, his legs, his stomach.

Multiple times, so many times and she never even kept count.

He is immobilized.

She hastily gets up, hair in disarray, body shaking, shooting arm trembling, gasping and panting.

She surveys herself and notices she is covered in blood—how much is his or hers, she doesn’t know.

She swallows away the nausea as she stares at the body, then promptly turns to walk away.

Elyza knows she’s not a good person—she’s a liar, cheater, and a thief, but she never thought she would be a murderer. Even when she purchased the gun, she mainly wanted it with her as a reinforcement, an intimidation weapon, just for show. She never truly thought she would have to use it. She would shoot a few rounds, sure, but never at the victim, just around the vicinity, to scare them into giving up their goods.

Her night of glory ended in gore, and she can’t fathom how you can go from success to shit in such short period of time.

“… Ngh…rrguuh…”

The noise was curious.

Elyza is conscious of her heart’s two loud beats: once in relief— _he’s alive!_ —once in fear— _he’s… alive?_

She gulps, and turns around slowly, finding herself staring into the dull, blank eyes of the man she just killed, who is standing upright and walking towards her again as she remains still in disbelief.

“… What are you? How are you… how is this… This is not real, is it?” she whispers, asking questions that she knows won’t be answered.

She lifts up her gun again, aims, and shoots.

But nothing happens.

The pistol is exhausted of ammo.

She stares at the gun in shock, then back at the man, then at the gun, and finally the ground.

“Is my death inevitable? Is this what I deserve…? Oh, God, I just, I don’t know…” Elyza feels herself frozen still, the shock of what was currently taking place still sinking into her.

She can feel tears rolling down her numb cheeks, and realizes that she really doesn’t want to die right now.

Her resolve steels.

“Fine,” she says with a false smile and a quavering voice. “If I’m going to die right now, I may as well go down trying to take you out. Don’t worry, I’ll try to get us in a cool wrestling pose for when they outline our corpses. That’ll be a pain to draw, I bet.”

She walks around him, hoping she can get past him to run in the opposite direction, but the tunnel is too narrow to make an escape.

_Screw it all to hell, I’ll just go for it!_

She takes off right past the creature, but it lunges at her, and she engages the attack.

As she fights him on the ground, punching, kicking, screaming, scratching, and beating him to a pulp, with the creature delivering the same in return, she sees bright white lights at the end of the tunnel.

“Ha ha, God, you’re still gonna let me into heaven after all this!?” she laughs maniacally as the white lights draw closer and grow brighter.

She separates herself from the creature and sways herself to a standing position, lifting her arms. “Come and take me, Lord!”

And she is promptly hit by a car.

Well, more like, is flung over it, landing sideways.

“Ugh…”

Two armed men in military attire descend from the vehicle, scurrying over to where she’s huddled into a ball.

“The target is secured,” one of them says. “The creature was found attacking a civilian at Third Street Tunnel.”

_Finally! Took you long enough, authorities_ , she thought in annoyance as she groaned in pain.

She feels the barrel of a gun at her head.

“Ready to fire at a moment’s notice,” the other replies. “The creature remains still.”

_Awww, these **dumbasses** ,_ she thinks angrily, grunting in pain as she tries to move.

“It’s stirring, we’re taking off the safety locks,” the other one announces.

“Stop… stop it, dun… shoot,” she slurs out, feeling a concussion coming on.

“It’s… speaking?”

“That’s impossible. It said in our briefing that they cannot communicate orally. They only groan and growl,” one of the military men says.

“I was groaning… in pain… Jesus Christ,” she huffs out, trying to stand up.

The two men look at one another in alarm.

“We apologize. That was our mistake… you were attacking the civilian on the ground, you were covered in blood, we thought you were the creature…”

“Then you stood up and charged right at our vehicle,” the other explained. “That appeared to us to be aggressive behavior expected of The Infected.”

“In my defense… I thought I was running towards the pearly gates,” Elyza muttered out, now standing up with some stability.

“…”

“…”

“So, uh, The Infected?” Elyza slowly drawls out, trying to calm a headache. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think you’re looking for… him.”

“Hsss…grrr…mphgf…”

One of the military guys runs, places the barrel of his gun to its head, and shoots.

The creature immediately stills.

“That’s usually all it takes to knock them down for good,” the military guy that stayed beside her explained.

Elyza clucks her tongue and raises an eyebrow as she shakes her head. “20 bullets and none of them struck him in the head. Unbelievable.”

_But at the same time, this is my luck we’re talking about, so of fucking course,_ Elyza thinks, rolling her eyes.

The military man that is returning from killing the creature on the points to Elyza pistol. “Is that your firearm?”

Elyza’s eyes widen.

“Uh…”

“Is it registered under your name?”

“Uh…”

“Are you certified to have a firearm with you?”

“That’s, uh…”

The three of them stare at one another.

“…”

“…”

“…”

Elyza spins on her heel and hauls ass out of that tunnel.

She’s shot with a tranquilizer.

_FFFFFFFUUUUUU—_

She’s goes down, paralyzed

The men approach her. “We apologize, Miss…”—they take the wallet and pull out her ID cards— “These are not yours.”

They stare at her, unimpressed.

Elyza stares back at them sheepishly from her position on the ground.

“Well, Miss, it seems you have a lot more to answer to us than just questions about your encounter with The Infected,” the one military man says.

The other military man heads over to the body of the Walker. “Let’s take her to one of the safe zones, drop her in the questioning room. We will leave the infected corpse in the vehicle and then drive it to the command center.”

“10/4,” the military man near Elyza says.

As the military men roll her into the back of the vehicle alongside the infected corpse (because there was no space at the front of the vehicle to accommodate her own limp, paralyzed body), she stares into the lifeless (finally!) eyes of the corpse as she thinks to herself: _Just another day in the life of Elyza Lex_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If no one will supply Alicia Clark with answers, she will go out and find them herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the promotional cover for this story on my blog! Until I can figure out how to put pics on AO3, I will give links to all media for this story:
> 
> https://thewellroundeddabbler.wordpress.com/2016/04/03/snapshots-of-the-apocalypse-chapter-2/
> 
> I will be posting more images on my blog as I make them. I hope you all hop on along with me on the journey through this new story. I promise the ride will be epic, or your kudos back.

               

“Alicia, get away from the windows!”

Alicia snapped her head to face her brother.

“Sheesh, what, now I can’t even gaze outside without someone flipping themselves a table?” Alicia questioned in displeased incredulity. “Calm down, already, this whole detox process is making you extra paranoid.”

Nick’s nostrils flared and he urgently glanced out the window that his sister still had not stepped away from. “Alicia. Do as I say. _Please_.”

Alicia glared at her brother and flexed her jaw in silent irritation. “Fine. If it’ll get you to zip it.”

The brunette closed the blinds, then the curtains, and stomped away from her spot by the window.

Nick looked visibly more relaxed, but still very alert. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” Alicia muttered boorishly, arms crossed, leaning on the wall. “Just so you know, though… only because Dad is gone doesn’t mean you can order me around. Nobody made _you_ man of the house.”

Nick gulped as he looked down, flexing his fists as he feels another chill, from unease or withdrawals, he’s yet to determine, though most likely both. “I’m not posing as anybody here. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“From what?” Alicia swiftly responded.

“From…” Nick begins, but then promptly stops himself. He glances around the living room, rubbing the cloth of the jacket sleeve that is covering his left hand. He sighs in exasperation. “Look, things are just not safe out there right now, okay?”

Alicia purses her lips and smiles sourly. “See? You’re doing it again. You’re dodging the question. Like Travis, like Mom, like everyone I speak to. Except that everyone else doesn’t seem to know anything, while you all… you’re hiding something.”

Nick sighs again, licking his dry lips. He tries to speak but stutters as another shiver runs through his detoxing body. “I-I-I…  can’t tell you anything when even _I’m_ not sure what’s going on.”

“You could share what you _do_ know,” Alicia counters in a no-nonsense tone. “What’s stopping you?”

Nick takes a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring once again; he opens his mouth to respond and as soon as the first verbal noise comes out, he’s running to puke into the bucket his mother, Madison, left behind.

_Of course,_ Alicia thinks, defeated, almost humorous, because she can _never_ get straight answers from anybody. It’s almost funny how something always gets in the way—it’s either not the right time, or they’re somehow interrupted, or they just give her the silent treatment whenever she attempts to broach the topic.

She grimaces slightly as she sees her brother practically hurling his intestines out with how loud the squelching noises the metal base of the bucket makes as the contents of his stomach hit the bottom.

She relents in her anger for a moment and strides over to help him, taking off her hairband.

“Why did you grow your hair so long? It’ll only make you miserable while you’re puking all your impurities out,” Alicia nagged, gathering her brother’s hair into a ponytail with her hairband. “I mean, it’s not like you even style it, what’s the point?”

Nick heaves out what sounds like a chuckle. “Aren’t the girls supposed to like the musician-types with the long hair, faraway look, and troubled past?”

“The only instrument you ever played was the recorder in elementary school, the _faraway look_ you get in your eye is when you’re high, and your family is upper middle class so your troubled past only comes from the stupid decision you made to consume drugs,” Alicia mercilessly slayed.

Nick chuckles weakly into the bucket again. “You knock a man when he’s down, Alicia…”

“I just leave no stoner unturned,” Alicia replies wryly. “How are you feeling? You feel some acid crawling back up your throat?”

“Kind of. I’m containing it,” Nick admitted as he grimaced at the aftertaste left in his mouth.

Alicia’s face also scrunched up in mild disgust. She was never very good at caring for sick people, particularly those of the vomiting type; it was part of the reason why she avoided going to parties with her friends, knowing they would engage in underage drinking, and that she would be stuck as the designated driver and de-facto nurse for them should they black out, throw up, get migraines, or suffer terrible hangovers.

So, yeah, parties were _not_ her scene.

“I’ll prepare you some chamomile tea,” Alicia tells him as she stands from her crouched position next to her brother. “Go rinse your mouth at the bathroom; if you need to throw up again, the toilet’s right there.”

Nick bobs his head up and down in acknowledgement. “Thanks.”

Alicia cuts her gaze to the bucket. “Just, uh, leave that there. Mom’s been dealing with our spit up since we were babies, I’m sure she knows how to take care of that.”

She helps her brother up and walks him to the bathroom, where she leaves him leaning against the sink before she makes her way to the kitchen to heat up some water for the tea.

_It’s insane to think it only took a week for things to crumble so spectacularly,_ Alicia thinks to herself as she grabs a mug and tea bag from the cupboard. _And I’m not stupid, I’m sure this has been going on for a while now. I saw the leaked footage from the news that my friends showed me on their phones. I know it has something to do with people behaving strangely. The only thing I can think of, though, is that there’s some kind of new drug out there that’s turning people almost… inhuman. I don’t know much about the science but it must be inhibiting some kind of cognitive function that allows people to control themselves._

Alicia hears the water boil. She heads over to pour the bubbling water into the tea bag-containing mug. _I wonder if that’s why Mom’s so worried about Nick and his drug consumption. I mean, obviously drugs in general are bad, but if there really is some seriously corrupt snuff going around, I would guess Mom’s trying to keep Nick from getting his hands on some, even accidentally._

She hears keys struggling to unlock the front door to the house. She treads lightly but quickly over to the peep hole, and is relieved to see her mom on the other side of the door.

She unlocks the door and her mom hastily makes her way in, shutting the door closed behind her even more hastily.

She looks around the living room, looking alarmed. “Where’s your brother?”

Alicia finishes locking the door and fastening the chain into the secure position. “He’s in the bathroom, probably puking, probably reading comics, but most likely the former.”

Madison stares blankly at her daughter for too many seconds to be considered normal before she shakes her head and eventually nods. “Okay. Good… Good. The, uh, the drugs—his body—needs to clear itself of the contaminants.”

Alicia nods. “You might want to go see him. He’s looking pretty wretched. It’s a tragic sight, to be honest. And you know I’m no good near people throwing up. It’s like a domino effect, I might puke, too, and I’m sure we got enough problems.”

“Yeah, yes,” Madison says distractedly. “Yes, I’ll do that. I… I brought some drugs to help him.”

Alicia quirked an eyebrow. “Drugs are what we are trying to _rid_ his body from, Mom.”

Madison blinks and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I meant medicine, some pills to help with his withdrawal symptoms. I have a lot on my mind, Alicia, I’m sorry.”

Alicia smiles wryly and her eyes widen in mock shock. “Whoa, I was just kidding, Mom. No need to sound so earnest in your apology. I’m your kid. I get it.”

“Right,” Madison says softly. “Thank you, sweetheart. For taking care of your brother in my absence. I hope I didn’t take too long.”

“Well, you took long enough for him to fill that bucket over ¾ of the way full,” Alicia informed, shrugging in the direction of the bucket. “I would offer to empty it out but… I really don’t want to. Don’t make me do it, Mom.”

“You have done enough for me, sweetheart, I will look after your brother while I’m here,” Madison responds with tenderness, caressing her daughter on the side of her head, twining her fingers in brunette locks so similar to hers.

“While you’re here?” Alicia questioned curiously, folding her arms in front of herself.

Madison nods tentatively. “Travis. I have been trying to get in touch with him but he’s not picking up his phone, and it’s been several hours since we last spoke, and with everything that is happening, I’m concerned for his safety.”

“Speaking of that,” Alicia begins opportunely, “mind telling me what’s going on now? What fresh hell has America released from the Pandora’s box and unto the world?”

Madison is sifting through items in her purse to find some of the medicine she smuggled from the school’s nursing office. She stops and stares at her daughter, her eyes glossy with a layer of internal conflict. “It’s too early to tell, Alicia. Even the authorities are not fully informed on what the situation is out in the streets.”

Alicia huffs. “But you have to at least know _something_ , Mom. You were just out there. And Travis was rambling about taking us to the desert or something right before he left. And Nick is too pitiful to try and pump information from, so he’s been useless. Why can’t someone just straight up tell me what’s happening out there? I’m not blind, Mom. It’s the information age, and I’ve been reading up on stuff with my phone, but the battery’s almost dead and all I’ve learned is that there are riots and uprisings going on downtown. I don’t know what about, though.”

“Alicia, I have to go tend to your brother, now is not the time to have this conversation. But we will, okay?” Madison placated.

Alicia looks unimpressed. “Or so you said the last three times I asked, but it’s never the right time, is it? This what I call Alicia’s family response scenario 1: _now is not the right time_.”

“I don’t want to give you any misleading information, Alicia, because when people get bits and pieces of information regarding a situation, thoughts stray and they concoct a story in their heads about what could possibly be the bigger picture, and only cause themselves further paranoia. Do you understand? Now, if you would like to hear what is happening despite my inhibitions, then of course, we can speak about it at this moment—“

They hear a crash in the bathroom, then a pained groan.

“Nick!” Madison shouts, scrambling to her son.

_Seriously?_ Alicia think incredulously as she curses the universe for its timing. She hurriedly follows her mom to the bathroom.

Nick is shivering and mildly convulsing on the bathroom floor. Madison immediately lies him outstretched on the floor, loosens his clothing, and lays his head on her lap to cushion and cranial impact during the erratic movements.

“And this is what I call Alicia’s family response scenario 2: _something somehow interrupts us_ ,” Alicia narrates as she leans on the side of the bathroom entrance.

“Alicia, your brother is suffering right now, would you please not make light of the situation?” Madison berates.

Alicia exhales a light huff of both anger and shame. “Sorry. But we were finally getting ready to talk about it.”

“Would you go get me the medicine in my purse?” Madison directs.

“Okay,” Alicia says. She grabs the packaged pills, a bottled water from the counter bulk, and returns tohand these to her mother.

She waits for her mother to pop the pill into her son’s mouth. Madison encourages Nick to swallow it down with water, pouring small sips into his mouth until he accumulates enough to swallow.

When Alicia notices that her brother has stopped convulsing is now only suffering the occasional chill, she picks up the topic with her mother. “Now can we please talk about it?”

Madison is seemingly unhearing as she reads the instructions on how many hour intervals the pills should be taken.

“And this is what I call Alicia’s family response scenario 3: _the silent treatment_ ,” Alicia says sourly. “This is ridiculous.”

Madison turns to her daughter, looking exhausted. “Alicia, honey, I’m not trying to antagonize you. Would you like the truth? The honest-to-God truth? I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on out there. Have I seen things? Yes. But have I made sense of them yet? No. How can I explain things to you when I don’t understand them myself?”

Alicia kneels down next to her mother, realizing the pleading tone in her voice. “I’m sorry, Mom, I don’t mean to be difficult. I’m serious. I’m just very confused and a little mad that no one is telling me anything. Even if you don’t understand, just telling me what you have seen can help me help you. I know you all seem to be burdening yourselves with this knowledge you have, and I know you’re trying to protect me, but you can’t shelter me from this any more than you can save Nick from going through his withdrawals. The sooner you break this to me, the better for all of us down the line. Do you understand where I’m coming from? I don’t like standing around watching you all shoulder this while I remain quarantined in this bubble of ignorance, you know?”

“Of course I understand, darling,” Madison says softly. “Okay, I will talk to you about what’s going on.”

Alicia smiles at her mom. “Thank you.”

Madison nods. “However, can we push this until tomorrow? I am going to put your brother on the couch and try to get a hold of Travis before it gets any later.”

Alicia’s countenance darkens.

“Is that okay?” Madison questions.

“Sure,” Alicia bites acidly. “Then you can go out and forget we ever had this conversation, and continue to dodge the subject. At this point, I should just go and find out for myself, really. Back to scenario 1, are we?”

“Alicia,” Madison sighs pleadingly. “I promise you, we will talk about it tomorrow—“

“Save the excuses for tomorrow, Mom,” Alicia yells over her shoulder. “My bullshit meter’s met the quota for today.”

“Alicia!” Madison scolds her daughter, but doesn’t pursue it further than shouting her name. She is far too tired to deal with her moody teenager—but, she reasons, moody for a good reason.

She is not so out of touch as to not understand what her daughter is going through. She imagines she would feel the exact same way as her if in her position. It is very frustrating when those individuals in your life that clearly know more than you purposely withhold information from you.

Madison imagines that, much like her daughter, she would have reacted in the same way.

Alicia was indeed her mother’s daughter.

Madison let’s Alicia go stew in her room for the large part of an hour as she cleans up Nick, gets him new clothes, lays him comfortably on the couch, cleans up the bathroom, and empties out the bucket. She makes some quick mac and cheese for Alicia, and clear soup for Nick, to settle his stomach.

After two hours have passed, she goes upstairs to let Alicia know.

“Alicia, honey, I’m leaving now,” she says after she knocks on her daughter’s door. She tries to open it, but finds it locked. “I left some mac and cheese in tupperware for you, and soup for Nick is on the stove. If you could please wake him up in an hour and make sure he drinks some soup and takes his pill, I would really appreciate it.”

There was no response from the other side of the room.

Madison waits.

There is still no response forthcoming.

“Alicia, I want you to know that I understand what you’re going through, and I apologize if I may have acted insensitively to your perspective, but I do promise you that we will speak about this first thing in the morning tomorrow, okay?” Madison says appeasingly.

No response.

Madison nods to herself. “Right. Well, just hang in there for me one more day, okay? I promise, everything will be at least somewhat more clear tomorrow.”

 Madison walks away.

She packs some water, a flashlight, her phone, and her house keys to take with her in the valiant effort to find her fiancé amidst all the chaos going down in Los Angeles at this time of night.

She kisses the sleeping Nick on his forehead and heads for the table by the front door to get her car keys.

They are not there.

She glances around, panning her vision from Nick’s sleeping form across the expanse of the room—the couch, the living room table, the TV, the window sills. The key is nowhere to be seen.

Madison’s eyes widen.

She rushes to unlock the door, roughly swings it open, and meets an empty lot where her car is supposed to be parked.

Madison shakes her head and runs fingers through her locks in exasperation and, dare she say, pride.

Like mother like daughter, indeed.

But, pride aside…

_It’s that stubbornness that will get her killed_ , Madison thinks. _By me. Alicia, I am your mother, I brought you into this world and, if you cross me, I can take you out._

Madison hurries inside the house to wake Nick up, because now that the car’s gone, the difficulty levels have only increased, and this search party needs more members.

When she finds her, that girl will be grounded into the afterlife, and then some.

 

 


	3. Clarke Griffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke Griffin deals with the aftermath of Lexa's death, enduring Murphy's sarcastic remarks and Titus' uncooperative behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a video to accompany this piece! Introducing Elyza Lex:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_lq8ubWu2c
> 
> Check out the promotional cover for this story on my blog! Until I can figure out how to put pics on AO3, I will give links to all media for this story:
> 
> https://thewellroundeddabbler.wordpress.com/2016/04/03/snapshots-of-the-apocalypse-chapter-2/
> 
> The video is slightly crack, but this piece is serious. This story will chronicle snapshots of Elyza Lex and Alicia Clark as they navigate through the apocalypse, and of Lexa and Clarke as circumstances land them together in this new world for one epic adventure.
> 
> Death Is Not The End

Murphy doesn’t give a damn about most things.

With all the shit that’s gone down in his life so far, he really doesn’t have any more room in his wretched heart for worry.

Getting hanged after being wrongfully accused of murdering Wells? That was sick.

Getting banished from this new Lord of the Flies-esque society formed by the rest of his delinquent peers? That was excessive.

Getting dragged blindly across a perpetual desert by the demented Jaha and his equally mindless Apostles? That was ridiculous.

Getting trapped in a nuclear war-proof bunker for 86 days with an endless music collection, bountiful food and drink supply, countless TV channels and recorded programmes, and clean furniture to sleep and sit on? That… was pretty nice for a while, not gonna lie.

Getting himself captured by Grounders while posing as bait in the middle of a trail, only to be taken to a bald man dressed in what looks like a wrinkled potato sack, and getting beat, tortured, and interrogated by said potato sack man? Now _that_ was **_Fucked. Up._**

The only good thing to emerge from this shitfest was meeting Emori.

And where was she, anyway? Probably dead in a ditch somewhere. It was just Murphy’s Law: anything and anyone that you love can and will be destroyed.

This is probably why Murphy doesn’t give a damn about most things, unless… these things directly affect his chances at survival.

And this instinct brings him back full circle to Clarke Griffin, whom he is currently very concerned about, if only for his own selfish reasons.

Clarke has been unresponsive for the past hour and a half. At least, he estimates that’s how long it’s been, not like he has a clock drilled into his ass or something.

Clarke Griffin, who succeeded in getting close to one hundred juvenile delinquents to fall in line under her leadership.

Clarke Griffin, who pioneered early attempts at peace between the Grounders and the Sky People.

Clarke Griffin, who trail blazed alongside the Commander and Grounder leadership the ingenious plans to defeat the radiation-susceptible people of Mt. Weather.

Clarke Griffin, who executed an entire race of people as a tragic consequence of the choice to favor the freedom of her own people.

Clarke Griffin, who led and later fled the same people for whom she sacrificed so much of herself for.

But always, Clarke Griffin, who somehow, some way, survived.

After the bald man, Titus, carried the Commander’s chilling corpse dripping black blood out the exit of the room, he locked them inside the chamber. Clarke had remained still by the bedside where she witnessed the Commander end her fight, and after several minutes of gravely staring at the coagulating splotch of dark substance at the surface of the fur sheets, she finally moved, albeit with a sway, to rigidly march herself to the spot right by the window sill, where she has been blankly looking down on Polis ever since.

Murphy is not a complete dick, though.

He heard that talking things through usually helped a person that’s been through a traumatic experience, so he tried to lend an ear.

_“Yo, wanna try shooting some words my way?”_

_Clarke stared at him with a hollow look of incredulity._

_“Too soon? My bad.”_

He had also heard humor helped cheer people up, but clearly tried and true methods never work out for him.

Following the awkward attempt at conversation, the two of them stayed silent ever since.

Murphy had taken repose beside the Commander’s deathbed, but now he was growing impatient. No word has been sent from Titus since he left the room and locked them in, and he’s beginning to feel claustrophobic stuck in a space between a mute heroine and the ghost of a commander.

He would have been okay if Clarke had at least filled the empty vacuum with her sobs and cries of despair, but the girl has been eerily taciturn since the Commander’s body was removed.

It only serves to exacerbate Murphy’s nerves.

You see, he’s no dimwit.

For the short time he was privy to the interactions between Clarke and the Commander—well, only Lexa now, since that title is about to be handed to some sad clown with fortune more miserable than his—even a good-for-nothing like him was forced to look twice at the relationship between those two.

When he looked around and saw no one thinking twice about the developments associated with Clarke and Lexa, though, he almost scoffed at the absurdity of it:

For someone that doesn’t give a damn about most things, he’s aggravatingly perceptive.

He was almost even thinking he imagined their whole thing, until he saw how desperately Clarke fought to keep Lexa alive—that, and well, the parting kiss was very telling.

This is why, again, Murphy is rather unnerved at Clarke’s detached disposition.

It’s not that he cares about Clarke’s mental state, but it has historically been Clarke that has hauled everyone’s asses out of deeper shit before, and now the mastermind in question broods unresponsively out the window.

This hour and a half should have been about planning their next move. How would they escape? Who could help them? What would they do after? Where will the—?

The sound of a horn reverberates in the distance.

“The conclave must be starting.”

Murphy snaps his head up. This is the first thing that Clark has said since “What is that?” at the sighting of the A.I.

Murphy opens his mouth to respond but the doors to the chamber open before he gets the chance to.

Titus strides in donning his potato sack.

“Wanheda,” Titus immediately addresses Clarke. “The arrangements have been finalized for you to depart from Polis and return to stand with your people on the other side of the line.”

\~∞~/

Clarke’s back remains facing Titus.

She takes a breath that initially start out as shaky but eventually firms.

She swiftly spins to lock gazes with him and marches steadily towards him, none of the sway of dismay present in her gait.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clarke announces resolutely.

Titus’ nostrils widen as he contains his irritation at Clarke’s stubbornness.

 “The Commander” —he stops himself abruptly, seeing but unseeing into Clarke’s eyes— “Lexa asked that I swear I ensure no harm comes to you, Clarke.”

“She asked that you swear _you_ don’t ever harm _me_ again, Titus,” Clarke corrected stiffly.

Titus stared stonily at Clarke. Murphy silently watched the exchange from his position, now stood beside Lexa’s deathbed rather than lying on it.

“I promise this action is only intended with your best interests in mind,” Titus responded, trying to placate the blonde’s fury.

“You also thought you had Lexa’s best interest in mind when you plotted to kill me not that long ago,” Clarke retorted bitterly. “We’ve all seen how that turned out for her.”

Titus tensed up, and swallowed in discomfort.

“So forgive me, _Titus_ , if I don’t feel safe with you,” Clarke bit back, spitting his name out. “Or any plan you concoct, for that matter.”

Murphy felt like whistling at the burns, but he felt that probably inappropriate given the gravity of the situation.

Titus fell back on his original argument. “Once again, I swore—“

“You _swore_ an oath to protect your Commander, for however long your stint as flamekeeper lasted,” Clarke countered, unapologetic at her interruption. “And look at what happened to her, _under your protection_.”

Titus finally let the veneer of calm shatter from his person and snapped at the girl, “I only sought to aid her!”

“ _YOU **KILLED** HER_!”

And the dam breaks.

Titus is left gaping at Clarke, his mouth twitching in an attempt to form a response to the most direct verbal assault Clarke has thrown at him since he stepped foot in the chamber.

“You, Titus… you… killed _her_ ,” Clarke chokes out in between gasps that seems to stab at the back of her throat as she strains to communicate her words.

And Clarke breaks along with the dam.

 _Ah, there it is,_ Murphy thinks with a stoic expression as he watches Clarke struggle to keep her stance firm in the face of Titus’ quietly pained expression. _The belated reaction._

As Murphy continues to observe the exchange between Titus and Clarke, he thinks that he better understands Clarke’s mind-boggling non-reaction following Lexa’s death.

The direct connection to the cause of her grief was absent.

When her father died, Clarke blamed Wells; despite their friendship and childhood history, she shunned Wells.

When she found out the truth behind her father’s death, Clarke blamed Abby; against her best interests for survival in the ground, she ignored Abby.

When Finn died, she blamed Lexa; coupled with the betrayal, she resented Lexa.

When Mt. Weather was eliminated, she blamed herself; contrary to people celebrating her as a hero, she hated herself.

And now…

Lexa is dead, and she blames Titus.

She didn’t say a word to Murphy, or to herself, when it was just the two of them in the room. Clarke had no use to lash out at Murphy. He had only been collateral in a feud that involved three other key players. Clarke had quietly seethed and analyzed the situation over and over in her head before she homed in on a target at whom to shoot with her pent-up anger and mentally accumulating diatribe.

 _Pun intended_ , Murphy thought as he laughed at his dark humor. He kept these thoughts to himself, though, because he didn’t think the other two occupants of the room would appreciate his remarks.

Titus hangs his head in acknowledgment of Clarke’s accusation.

“I recognize your animosity towards me,” Titus began with a more subdued timbre of his voice. “However, I will assure you, Clarke, that no one, not even you, can slug me with more shame, sorrow, vitriol, and compunction than I have already punished myself with, and will continue to do so for time unimaginable, for the circumstances of Lexa’s death.”

Clarke continued to breathe shallowly as she tried to forcefully hold in her sobs. Tears had already started their trek down her reddening cheeks, and she didn’t want to crumble any more than she already had in front of the flamekeeper. She tried to parting her lips to give a response, but only a strangled cry erupted, which she immediately tried to contain by shutting her mouth and biting her lip, brow furrowing in despair.

“I once told Lexa that she was special,” Titus continued, looking away from Clarke to afford her some semblance of privacy in her manifesting grief, and directing his gaze to the window the blonder was absent-mindedly gazing from before Titus walked in. “Mind you, this was right after she told me that she thought _you_ were special.” Titus spared a glance at Clarke, who was staring intently at him as she cried, before returning it to the window. “But I meant that she was quite different than other commanders I had served before her. All commanders wanted peace for their people, but war and strife was the only means by which to achieve settlements, and the commanders themselves seemed to thrive on the thrill of battle, the glory of victory, and the adulation and respect of their people.”

Clarke’s sobs quietened to sniffs, and her tears dropped in frequency.

Titus continued, “Lexa was not that way. Like the commanders before her, she engaged in combat, doled out justice to criminals, punished traitors and defectors, and declared wars on uncooperative factions, but she never seemed to take any form of pleasure in it—not even when her counselors and people approved whole-heartedly of her actions. I felt that Lexa went through the motions in her role as Commander, carrying out her duties in as faithful a fashion to her predecessors, never wanting to stray from their goals, and devoting her life to accomplishing what they had originally set out to do during their lifetimes.”

Murphy listened closely, and Clarke had now stopped sniffing, and her tears had gone, leaving behind only wet trails to be dried by the air.

“It wasn’t until she met you that I felt her truly take command of her position, saw her willing to deviate from the predetermined path left behind by her predecessors. I had observed Lexa from when she was a young Nightblood, training for the possibility to be Commander, and I knew her to harbor radical thoughts, ideas for ruling our society that no Commander had ever expressed interest in pursuing. When she became leader of our clans, I feared terribly for her term; I felt that her revolutionary thinking would cause her people to think her too eccentric and revolt against her, but she never acted upon her thoughts, and I was thankful for her discretion… but then you appeared, and she began to second-guess all my teachings.”

Clarke swallowed thickly as she began to replay all her interactions with Lexa, and exactly how impactful she might have been in the young Grounder leader’s short life.

“I believe she found in you a like-minded spirit and, seeing how her unorthodox vision lined up with yours, that gave her the courage to begin enacting the various plans, laws, and orders that you have seen her dole out since your first encounter. I have had a lot of time to ruminate over Lexa’s, your, and my actions since the Trikru and the Skaikru made contact, and I have come to the conclusion that while a part of me certainly will always stand fast to the belief that your meeting, however indirectly, precipitated Lexa’s demise, it also freed her from her own, self-imposed restraints. I believe I have you to thank for allowing Lexa to lead a Commander term that was honest to her style of leadership, and that imprinted onto our people the idea of a lifestyle that could be much different than we have heretofore been accustomed to.”

Clarke pursed her lips as she pondered over Titus’ words, nodding slightly to herself. “Lexa _was_ special.” She stopped to gather her thoughts before wording her next sentence. “I think… I think she would have eventually become that sort of leader, regardless of my existence. I don’t presume to know her, not as well as you probably did, but judging from what she allowed me to see of her, I think she had a will that was more than strong enough to challenge her culture’s lifestyle. It was just a matter of biding her time.”

Murphy glanced from Clarke to Titus, but the blonde continued speaking.

“I don’t care, Titus, if you blame me for speeding up Lexa’s death; fair enough, I blame you for causing it,” Clarke bluntly spoke. “But neither of us could have protected her in the long run, because her revolutionary mind would have endangered her at some point down the line. Don’t tell me I was the reason she suddenly mustered up the courage to break free of the shackles that thwarted her leadership, because if what you tell me is true, she had always been trying to do just that, but your counsel always discouraged her to continue otherwise.”

Titus remained silent, hands clasped behind his back as he absorbed Clarke’s words.

“If you want to give me all this credit, then maybe I was more of a catalyst that incidentally happened to enter her life and show her that there is always an alternative,” Clarke conceded. “But your counsel against my ideas, she juggled them both as best as she could, to make any transition from one to another as smooth as possible. Any form of change will always disgruntle people, so yes, she endangered herself, but you killed her, Titus, and now… now we’ll never know how far we could have gone with her vision, will we?”

Titus flexed his jaw, in parts wanting to retaliate and in others accepting the consequences of his actions.

“So… uh, don’t mean interrupt this heart-to-heart session we’re holding over here, but hasn’t that conclave battle royale thing started already?” Murphy piped up from the side.

Clarke turned to glance at Murphy, and then directed her firm gaze back at Titus. She searched him with her eyes. “I want to see Aden.”

Titus stood his ground. “The Nightblood novitiates are not to see anyone outside of the fallen commander and those involved in the proceedings of the sacred ritual.”

“Add me to the social circle, then,” Clarke pushed.

“I reiterate, the sacred ritual does not allow outsiders to—“

“Fine, if you won’t take me, I’ll go to him myself,” Clarke stubbornly announced before side-stepping Titus and walking past him and out the now unlocked exit.

Titus remained rooted in his position, staring forward in disgruntlement at the blonde’s audacity to intervene a sacred ritual.

Murphy approached him in his laidback way and, before also walking past him to the door, said, “For a bouncer, you’re not doing a very good job, just saying.”

\~∞~/

When Lexa had first introduced Aden to Clarke, the blonde had thought the boy to be too scrawny and unkempt to be fit to be a leader. He would need far more time before he was able to carry himself with the same aura of authority that Lexa seemingly effortlessly exuded.

But that time of development had slipped from his hands.

One look at his face and Clarke could tell, as Aiden stiffly gazed at a concrete monument in the Commander’s throne room, that the boy’s worst nightmares were about to come true.

During the conclave, it was kill or be killed—and the price for winning is a fate far heavier than death.

Clarke had abruptly made her entrance into the quiet throne room of the Commander; everyone was somber, and the Nightbloods were stoic.

She approaches Aden as he prays over a white, silk blanket, and stops when she makes out the shape of a body bulging through the cloth.

“Is that…?” Clarke begins, trailing off when she feels a sting in her heart.

Aden slowly turns to her and carefully nods, then looks back at the body. “Would you like a moment with her?”

_A moment?_

That was all Clarke could now have with Lexa – one final, singular moment.

What about all the moments that they had yet to experience together? What about the revolutionary future of peace and prosperity that they had promised to their people and to each other? What about all the conversations and interactions that for a long time hung heavy between them and neither acknowledged to voice?

_A moment is not enough._

A moment could never be enough to communicate to Lexa all the things she missed the opportunity to tell her when she was alive and receptive. There is no use in talking to Lexa’s vessel, because what made her the person that Clarke loved is gone.

The Grounders may have their beliefs, in reincarnation, rebirth, cycles, and past and future lives, but it has been Clarke’s experience, and _human experience_ in general, that the dead do not come back.

Lexa has slipped from Clarke in this lifetime, and the crude reality of it is that Clarke must learn to live without her, like she did with her father, Wells, and Finn.

All the things that Clarke needs to say must be told to a Lexa whose spirit has not escaped this world; there is no point in a one-sided delivery to an empty vessel. It may be therapeutic to some, but Clarke never took comfort in such coping mechanisms.

Clarke shakes her head in a sputtered motion, looking down at her feet before raising her eyes to meet Aden’s again. “I’ll have my moment with her later.”

Aden had noted Clarke’s hesitation to approach Lexa’s remains. “Is it too painful?”

Clarke blinked, then shook her head again. “No, it’s just… too hollow.”

Aden pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. He paused before remarking, “You loved her.”

Clarke swallowed thickly and felt her eyes glisten with moisture. She blinked repeatedly in order to vanquish the forming tears. “Yes.”

Aden nodded again.

Clarke felt uncomfortable having a child looking at her with stoic sympathy. She felt now was a good time to broach another pressing matter, particularly if it would steer the attention away from her currently vulnerable state.

“Aden, I have to know, do you still plan to honor that pledge you made to the 13th Clan?” Clarke questioned urgently.

“Of course,” Aden responded immediately.

Clarke nodded, glancing back down at the floor as she pondered over the next important step—how to ensure Aden wins.

“We all will,” Aden continued.

Clarke glanced up, startled. “What?”

“Heda Lexa made us promise,” Aden elaborated, looking to his fellow Nightbloods. “She made us swear loyalty to the 13th clan should any of us become the next Heda.”

All the Nightblood children stood when Aden finished his announcement, and they gazed at Clarke with solemn determination in their pledge.

_Oh, God, this is…_

Too much.

She had made them promise to stand by Clarke and her people, no matter what happened to her.

Brave, wise, strong, and compassionate Lexa.

That poor, young warrior was so undeserving of her fate.

_You deserved so much better…_

Clarke panned her vision left and right, observing the young Nightbloods as they tried to look confident and self-important, despite knowing only one of them would come out alive from the conclave.

Clarke looked back to Lexa’s body, then at the children. “Thank you.”

At that moment, the doors swung open aggressively, hitting the walls of the Commander’s throne room with a loud, reverberating smack.

Ontari had arrived.

Trailing behind her was King Roan, and the Azgeda people.

Ontari instantly locked eyes with Clarke.

“You!” she hissed with contempt, and then launched herself at the ambassador.

She managed to throw and pin Clarke to the ground before the Nightbloods and King Roan forced her to release the blonde.

“Stand down, Ontari!” King Roan ordered. “If you are to become the next commander, you must exercise restraint.”

“That bitch tried to kill your mother!”

Roan and Clarke exchanged a charged look.

“My mother wronged a great amount of people,” King Roan spoke firmly. “That would have been far from the first attempt on her life. You would know, Ontari, it is why she had made you her bodyguard.”

Ontari huffed, though it sounded more like a contained growl.

“Ontari!” Titus called, attracting the oldest Nightblood’s attention.

How long had Titus been there?

But more importantly…

 _Sheesh, thanks for the help,_ Clarke thought sourly, _would have appreciated it more when she slammed me to the floor._

 “King Roan is correct,” Titus continued authoritatively. “You must restrain yourself. You may showcase your battle skills once we enter the combat phase of the conclave.”

Ontari seemed to tremble with barely contained rage before she shook off King Roan’s hold and stomped over to Clarke. She glared at her and sneered, “I’ve been training my whole life for this moment. What’s a couple more hours? Once I become Heda, I will wipe our land free of your kind. Starting with _you_.”

On that note, she spun on her heel and marched out of the Commander’s throne room.

“Ontari, stay where you are, you need to be anointed like the rest of the Nightbloods before proceeding with the conclave,” Titus shouted after the girl as he crossed out of the room.

Clarke gulped, clenching her fists. She glanced around and noticed people were gauging her state of mind.

_Bottle it up and don’t let them see you flinch._

She was the only link that Skaikru had with the Grounders, and they couldn’t see her wavering and lose their respect for her. She locked eyes with Murphy in the crowd, who at some point must have walked in during the scuffle.

She looked back at the Nightbloods, and noticed that they were still standing firm in what must be a conclave ritualistic formation, but she could see slight tremors coursing through their small, light frames. Even Aden, the oldest in the group, couldn’t be more than 12 or 13 years old.

 _Not to be xenophobic, but what kind of savage culture considers putting children in a battle to the death a rite of passage?_ Clarke thinks in genuine incredulity.

_‘You think our ways are harsh, but it’s how we survive.’_

_‘You were right, Clarke… life is about more than just surviving.’_

What would Lexa think of this now? Would she eventually have become revolutionary enough to challenge the conclave itself and the bloody path to ascension as Commander?

She noticed subtle movement in the crowd. She saw Murphy cocking his head sideways, signaling the door.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

Clarke gave one final glance to the Nightblood children, nodding her head in acknowledgment of their bravery and sacrifice.

So long as Ontari was a contender, none of them were anything but walking dead.

\~∞~/

“We have to leave, Clarke,” Murphy said as they strode through the hallways. “Now.”

“We _can’t_ leave,” Clarke disagreed fervently. “Ontari will kill all those kids, become Commander, and lay waste to Arkadia. We don’t accomplish anything by running away.”

“She said she’d get started with _you_ ,” Murphy reminded. “Don’t make it easier on her by being a sitting duck.”

“Okay, so what’s your suggestion? We go back to Arkadia and then what? Warn them? Okay, say we do that, but after that, what? Prepare for battle? They have twelve clans, Murphy, and one clan alone probably has three times the number of people Arkadia does,” Clarke argued. “We would just be delaying the inevitable. So, no, slipping away doesn’t solve our problem.”

Murphy paused in his speech for a moment. That really _was_ going to be his suggestion, but Clarke just dissected it until nothing but a useless skeleton of a failed plan remained behind. They arrived at the Commander’s chambers and carried on with their conversation within it.

“Alright, then, Great Wanheda,” Murphy said in a lazy, sarcastic drawl. “What’s _your_ idea?”

Clarke stared meaningfully at Murphy. “We have to eradicate the problem at the root.”

Murphy waited, lifting his eyebrow with interest. “So… kill Ontari?”

“No.”

“Then… kill Titus?”

“… No.”

“Okay, then, kill the ambassadors?”

“No! We’re not killing anyone, Murphy!”

“C’mon, we don’t have time to play 21 questions here, what’s the right answer?”

“We get rid of the flame,” Clarke states, gazing at the boy solemnly.

“… Right, well, while it may be a nice prank to cause a mass blackout in the Grounder capitol, I don’t think blowing out candles is what Lexa would have wanted us to do to preserve her legacy,” Murphy responded blandly.

“She might have thrown a fit, actually,” Clarke muttered to herself.

“What?”

“Stay focused,” Clarke said, both to Murphy and herself. “I meant the A.I. We need to find it, grab it, and take it far away from here. The Grounders respect their rituals, and if the A.I. is missing, I don’t think they would officially instate Ontari as the new Commander.”

“And what would we do then?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, once we have the chip, will we just be out on the run for the rest of our lives?” Murphy elaborated. “You know they’ll send hunters after us. Their kind are relentless. If they really are as clingy to their religion as you say, then you can count on it that they’ll never stop chasing us. I don’t want any part of that.”

“I haven’t had time to think that far ahead,” Clarke admitted grudgingly. “I only just pieced this plan together in the hallway, not much time to hash a detailed plan during our 5-minute trek from the throne room to the bedroom, don’t you think?”

Murphy folded his arms and sighed, looking around the room, his eyes locking on a particular corner of the room. “Well, either way, while your plan could have turned out great, it’s already flopped.”

Clarke furrowed her brow. “Why do you say that?”

Murphy points to aforementioned corner of the room. “Because he overheard everything.”

Clarke snaps her head to the side and notices Titus hidden in a crevice of the room, servicing the flame.

 _Ugh, I swear, this could only happen to me_ , Clarke thought miserably, mentally slapping herself. _I must’ve gotten too caught up in the conversation; I didn’t even see him there._

“So, how much didja hear?” Murphy questioned, flicking his head in Titus’ direction in acknowledgment of his presence.

“Starting from the line of thought to blow out candles, I believe,” Titus coolly informed, continuing to dip the chip into a basin containing pristine water.

“Just so we’re clear, that was Murphy’s misinterpretation of my idea,” Clarke defended, and Murphy raised a bored eyebrow at her.

“She might have rather enjoyed it, actually,” Titus murmured to himself, pulling out the chip and drying it with a clean rag.

“What?”

Titus finally turned to meet the eyes of the other two occupants in the room. “The arrangements I prepared for your departure are still awaiting you, Clarke. I would suggest you heed your companion’s sound counsel and take off from Polis while there is still time.”

“Don’t try to fling this ‘flee while you’re free’ nonsense at me again,” Clarke confronted, taking heavy and intimidating steps towards Titus. “You’re not actually going to allow Ontari a chance to fight for the position of Commander, are you?”

“She is a Nightblood,” Titus stated firmly. “It is her birthright.”

“This is insane.” Clarke shook her head in grave disbelief. “There are no candidates to make a decent Commander in the whole lot of Nightbloods we have put up for this bloodbath. Those children are too young to be leading anybody, and Ontari will only bring chaos and violence to the coalition. The Grounders are stuck between having a scared kid or a psychopathic teenager as their ruler.”

“Then our people can only hope that the outcome favors the lesser of the two evils,” Titus simply stated, pulling the chip out and letting it air dry as he shakes it, almost daringly, in front of the blonde ambassador.

Clarke felt like tearing her braids apart in frustration. Seriously, she will shower if someone makes this guy see some sense.

Murphy sighed in subdued exasperation. “Clarke, we’re being given an easy out right now. Let’s take it. That chip’s nothing but bad news, anyhow. Jaha had something similar to that. Tried to force feed it to me, actually, but I wasn’t about to swallow some foreign piece of kush, so I tossed it along with the rest of his stock into a lake before I hightailed it out of there.”

“Wait, you did what?” Clarke inquired, brow furrowing and turning to face Murphy.

“I just wasn’t about that life, y’know?” Murphy explained with a shrug.

“No, not _that,_ you said you hightailed it out of there,” Clarke said. “Where is _there_ exactly?”

“The City of Light,” Murphy replied, in just as flat a tone as ever. “What? Did I never tell you about it?”

Clarke pursed her lips and shook her head, humming. “Hmm, no, nope, you conveniently never mentioned anything about it.”

“I forget who I talk to about what anymore,” Murphy says with a shrug. “Getting beaten in a crypt by a bald man doesn’t help jog my memory.”

“Be serious for a minute here,” Clarke chastised, approaching Murphy. “What does the Commander’s chip have to do with this City of Light?”

Murphy bit the side of his cheek before replying, “Look, all I know is that Jaha was handing out some huge-ass capsules— which, how does anyone get that down their throat? —to the party that was traveling back to the Arkadia with us, but everyone he fed that to went loopy, started spouting spiritual drivel, and eventually got killed somehow, but Jaha was all, ‘There is no death in the city of light, Bruh.’ Okay, he didn’t say the Bruh part, but paraphrasing is supposed to capture the underlying feeling. Anyway, I didn’t want none, so I left him, his happy pills, and the woman that looked like she belonged more in the Red Light District rather than the City of Light.”

“Woman? What woman?” Clarke further questioned, trying to keep the boy on track.

“Becca”—Murphy frowned—“No, A.L.I.E was her name. She was this intelligent hologram that we met at the City of Light”— Murphy scrunched his brow and his face darkened— “She was the one that launched the missiles that ended the world.”

Clarke’s eyes widened; she blinked repeatedly, mouth agape, trying to formulate her next question, but then—

“Becca,” Titus voice boomed from behind Clarke. “Where did you learn that name?”

“It was the name of a woman in the recording I watched while stuck in a bunker in the City of Light,” Murphy responded, heading over to Lexa’s bed and plopping down on it before widening his legs and leaning forward. “Apparently, A.L.I.E was created by this Becca woman.”

Titus exhaled noisily, looking down at the floor in contemplation. “Becca was the name of the first Commander. Only the chosen Commanders and select leadership are privy to the knowledge of the Commander lineage, including the names of the Commanders of yore.”

Clarke glanced backwards at Titus, then back at the unexpectedly informed delinquent. “Murphy, you have to tell us everything you know.”

“That’s all I know,” Murphy said, sounding aggravated. “Weren’t you listening? I left before I got any deeper into that mess.”

Clarke eyes him searchingly, alert to any signs of dishonesty in his countenance. She found none.

She spun to face Titus. “We’re taking that chip.”

Titus stared solemnly at Clarke. “You are not the flamekeeper, Clarke.”

“Now’s not the time, Titus,” Clarke firmly spoke, projecting her voice. “That chip… that… that _thing_ you’re holding is somehow linked to the chain of events that managed to obliterate an entire _planet_ and the majority of _civilization_. There’s no way in _hell_ I’m letting that fall into Ontari’s vicious hands.”

“Technically, the nape of her neck—“

“Murphy!”

The boy raised his hands in casual surrender.

Titus stared defiantly at Clarke. “Ontari is not guara—“

“Don’t even try to pull something _you_ hardly believe over me,” Clarke warned. “You _know_ Ontari is going to win this thing, and this whole society is going to fall apart once she does. If we take the flame, we at least delay the selection of the Commander, and allow those Nightblood children to live to see another day while we try and figure out what to do about this mess.”

Titus fit the A.I. snugly into the cloth he was using to dry it with, and folded the chip carefully within the cloth. He folded his hands behind him. “Is this your resolution, Clarke of the Sky People? There is nothing I can do to convince you to do otherwise?”

“Not if we want to see Lexa’s vision realized,” Clarke spoke defiantly, clenching her fists and standingher ground.

Titus nodded, a light bobbing of the head.

He lifted his gaze to meet Clarke’s determined one.

“Then it’s time to set you on your way,” Titus finally stated.

The doors to the entrance of the chamber slammed open and in strode two Grounder guards.

They forcibly grabbed a hold of both Clarke and Murphy, expertly tying their hands together in steel chains.

“W-what are you doing!?” Clarke exclaimed, alarmed. “Let. Me. GO! You can’t do this to us, Titus! You’re deranged if you actually let Ontari become Commander— _Oomphh_!”

One of the guards punched Clarke in stomach, and the blonde almost lost consciousness from the pain of the impact.

Clarke stopped flailing, too sore to move without vomiting. She could make out from her blurry vision, glistening with tears of pain and frustration, that Murphy was trying to fight off the guard securing him.

Clarke faded in and out of consciousness as she was dragged through the hallways of Lexa’s mansion, right past the crowd of Nightbloods, Ontari included, and ambassadors that were gathering to move on to the next phase of the ritualistic Conclave. Her head hung in aggravation and humiliation at having suffered the first defeat.

After a couple of more near blackouts, she found herself unceremoniously tossed into a wooden floor, along with Murphy.

Clarke coughed and spat out some blood, having bust her lip at some point in the struggle to wrangle herself free from the hold of the guard, but she couldn’t recall when in between blackouts.

“You can… knock me out… all you want, _Titus_ ,” slurred Clarke, making sure to spit out the man’s name with disdain. “But I… I won’t everrr… let Ontari… become Commander…”

Clarke grimaced with the effort it took to formulate that sentence, what with trying to endure the excruciating pain in her abdomen.

“Neither will I.”

Clarke felt her limp hand lifted, flipped palm up, and then the touch of something solid hit her skin.

She blearily opened her eyes and saw the cloth with a bulge that most certainly indicated the presence of the chip on her hand.

She snapped her head upwards to meet Titus’ eyes, shock overriding the pain.

Titus touched his fingertips to her forehead, let them rest there for a few moments while he concentrated on her.

Clarke blinked repeatedly, and opened her mouth to speak. “What—?”

“There were 9 novitiates at the last conclave,” Titus began hurriedly. “One of them, Luna, fled her responsibilities before the ritual began, and as a consequence of her cowardice, was banished from our land. The final time I heard of her, she had become the leader of the boat people. They do not live on land; they live in the vast oceans, and due to their nomadic ways, no one can be sure of their location.”

Clarke continue to stare in disbelief at Titus.

Titus turned his head back, checking behind him, but the guards, seemingly accomplices, were keeping watch for him. Titus turned back to her.

“Find Luna, tell her what’s happened, convince her to return and become the leader I know she can be—that she currently _is_. Once you do that, take her with you to the City of Light, discover the truth behind the Commander’s lineage, the roots of our folklore. If the Commander’s spirit is truly a destructive entity, our people deserve to know what it is that we have worshipped and prayed to for as long as we have lived, as well as prevent any disaster that may result from its existence.”

Clarke knew she didn’t have time to be puzzled; Titus was clearly acting out of line, and time was running short.

“How do I find the City of Light?” she asked.

Titus side-eyes Murphy. “The boy was there once; he can find his way back.”

Murphy was groaning from his position lying sideways on the wooden floor. “That whole journey was hit and miss. And even if I did know, what makes you think I’ll help? I want no part of this.”

“It is to my understanding that your own people have rejected you,” Titus states coldly. “What leads you to think that they would be any more receptive to your return at this time?”

Murphy glared at Titus, then sighed.

“You got yourself a GPS, Clarke,” Murphy muttered, hitting his head lightly back on the wooden floor. “I’ve no clue where we’re going but… searching for satellites…”

“What will you do?” Clarke asked Titus.

“I will delay the conclave for as long as I can,” Titus explained. “I will no doubt be discovered to be missing the flame at some point down the line, but my forced removal of the two of you should hopefully spare me from suspicion for a good while as you both make your way out of Polis.”

Clarke looked around her surroundings, all wooden floor and walls. “Where _are_ we?”

“You are on The Abigail,” Titus stated. “It is the ship that the first commander utilized to explore the oceans during her time as ruler. No Commander has used it since; it is considered a sacred monument.”

“My mother’s name…” Clarke murmured, then chuckled weakly to herself. “Well, that… should lend some guidance…”

“We’re out of time,” Titus declared, standing up and getting ready to close the pull-down door on Clarke. “Do your job, Flamekeeper.”

And with that, Titus slammed the door down, shrouding Clarke and Murphy in darkness, and embarking them on a search for Luna and the City of Light, on sail The Abigail.


End file.
